Boyce, my lord." He turned to Harry. "Sir,
we have met before," and he bowed.
"Yes. The first time your wife was stuck in the mud. Now it's you."
"Sir, you have obliged me on both occasions," Marlborough said. "Well, my
lord? You had Mr. Boyce under examination. Pray go on."
"I don't understand your Grace," Sunderland said sulkily. "I have done
with the gentleman."
Colonel Boyce thrust forward. "By your Grace's leave, I'll take the lad
away. Time presses and--"
"You may be silent," said Marlborough. For the first time in their
acquaintance Harry saw his father look at a loss. It was an ugly,
ignominious spectacle. Marlborough turned to Harry, smiling, and his
voice lost its chill: "Well, Mr. Boyce, how far had it gone? Were they
asking you what you had done with Prince James?"
Harry stared at the bland, handsome condescension and hated it. "Oh,
you have always had the devil's own luck," he cried. "Devil give you
joy of it, now."
"You mistake me, I believe. I can forgive you more easily than some
others." He turned upon Sunderland. "I will tell you where Prince James
is, my lord. Safe out of your reach. On his way to France."
Sunderland made a petulant exclamation and spread out his hands. "Your
Grace goes beyond me, I profess. Do you choose to be frank with me?"
"Frank?" Marlborough laughed.
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